It's Her
by SpacePrincess'xo
Summary: Let's think back: when Peter returned to the Street, he was seeing someone. What if it hadn't been Toyah? What if, one day, he'd decided to visit his past and try and regain some of the happiness that he'd once had? What if the woman who he had been seeing and keeping secret from his family had been her? Rated T for now.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi :). Some of you may remember me from my old account. Long story short, someone logged into my account and deleted all of my stories, most of which focused on Liarla/Carter, and some of which I plan to edit and re-upload, as I think I started writing them when I was about fourteen and I'm still pretty proud of them. It's kind of a blessing, in a way, as it gives me a chance to re-invent my account. And part of that re-invention was meant to be steering away from _Corrie_ and Carla, so I started writing a _Grey's Anatomy_ fanfic. The trouble is, _Grey's_ is the kind of show that I can dip in and out of. Unfortunately, I can't seem to do that with _Corrie_ , and Carla in particular. Her past and her mannerisms and everything she's been through intrigue me, and she's such an amazing character that I can really get my teeth into and have fun writing about.**

 **I don't really know where this fic is going, so bear with me, guys. I'm also a uni student and have a job, so my updates won't be particularly frequent. I'd say the best thing to do would be to follow my stories, because updates will be quite random.**

 **Also, please review, as I really appreciate knowing your ideas and what I could do to improve. I write for myself, so I may not be able to take every idea on board, but I also write for you guys, so it's important to me to know what your views are.**

 **Thank you, and I hope you enjoy this.**

* * *

It's Her

Shrugging his leather jacket off his shoulders – he'd taken to wearing it again recently, as it reminded him of some of the brightest times of his life – Peter couldn't help but note the silence that fell over his family members in the adjoining living room. He sighed. They had been second-guessing him since the day he'd returned to the street that he had called home for so many years. He knew that his dad was worried that he'd turned back to the source – Peter wished that he could tell him that his situation was quite the opposite. He'd been dry for well over a year, and he was happy. But then he'd have to explain why he had been being so distant since his return, and why he was sneaking out every so often to take phone calls left, right and centre. And he'd promised her that he'd keep her a secret. For the time being, at least. So as he strolled through to the living room and forced a smile as all eyes immediately turned on him, he kept his lips well and truly zipped.

"Hello, stranger…" his stepsister Tracy muttered, leaning back in her seat at the dining room table and crossing one slim leg over the other, "Out on another of your mysterious walks?"

"Yeah, I was. I had to take a phone call so I just wandered down to the Red Rec and back, thought I'd get some air in my lungs," he responded. It wasn't actually a lie, but Tracy scoffed, regardless.

"Now there's a shock."

"Would you rather I asked your permission next time, Lady Jane?" Peter snapped, his pretend smile dropping to a frown, not drawing his eyes from Tracy's suspicious expression.

"Not at all." She suddenly smirked. "But when you pop out again, tell the bloke who runs the offy that we send our regards, won't you?"

"Tracy…" Peter's father Ken warned, narrowing his eyes at his stepdaughter. As concerned as he was for his son's welfare, he knew that pressing him for information would merely tip him over the edge.

"Wind your neck in, Tracy. Just because your life is all work and no play, back off mine." At this comment, Peter's nephew Adam, who was occupying the second seat at the table, raised an eyebrow in curiosity. Although he was young and had only been living with the family a few weeks, he'd been close to his uncle for years and could tell when he was keeping closely guarded secrets.

"'Ey up, you haven't got yourself a bird down south, have you?" he teased, light-heartedly, shooting Peter an obvious wink. "You always act all dark and mysterious when you've got a new missus on the scene." Tracy's eyes lit up.

"Well, praise the Lord. Does this mean you've finally gotten over Miss Lace Bra and No Knickers?" she practically sung. There was no love lost between Tracy and Carla, Peter's ex-wife. Particularly since Carla had destroyed her last relationship by toppling into bed with the love of Tracy's life.

"Don't call her that," Peter snapped, narrowing his eyes at his sister, who raised her hands in surrender. "You want to know why I like to take a walk every now and then? To get myself out of this prison for five minutes." Annoyed, Peter turned sharply on his heel and stormed upstairs into the privacy of his bedroom – or, at least, the bedroom that he currently shared with his nephew. Slamming the door shut behind him, he sat down on his bed and cursed himself for the teenage temper tantrum that he had just thrown. It was no wonder why his thirteen-year-old son, Simon, was the way he was. Peter sighed, leaning back on the bed and allowing his eyes to fall shut, trying to lose himself in his thoughts. It had been just over two months that his world had changed for the better. Two blissful months that he could never have dreamed would have happened. Interrupting his happy reminiscence, his phone chirped, his text tone piercing the silence. Rolling over onto one side, he glanced down at the screen, which was glaring up at him. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

' _It'll be okay. Just hang on in there. I'll be with you tomorrow xxx_ '.

He sucked in a deep breath as he adjusted his position to return to his thinking pose once again. Tomorrow. If he had told himself six months ago that she would be moving back to Manchester to be with him, Peter Barlow, a bigamist, alcoholic and a love rat who worked as a taxi driver and lived with his dad, he'd have called himself a dreamer and laughed at his wishful thinking. But it was true, it was really happening. In twenty-four hours' time, he would have her in his arms once again, and that was so much more than he deserved.

Meanwhile, she was curled up in her own bed, the seaside breeze wafting dreamily into her bedroom through the partially-opened window. Although it sent a chill through her body, she wanted to be able to remember the scent of the hint of salt when she returned to her former home, where the air was polluted with gas and car fumes. When she considered it in that way, she wondered if she'd regret leaving the new, cushy little life that she'd formed for herself. But then she'd roll onto her side to sleep and be attacked by the pang of sadness in her chest at the lack of Peter's warmth, missing how safe she felt when his arms were wrapped around her small frame as she slept. She was doing this to be with him. She honestly had no idea how the next few months would pan out, let alone the rest of her life. It was easy enough to trust him when they were confined to her little home, where they'd spent most of their days in each other's presence, but things would be different back in Weatherfield. Sure, they would be surrounded by their families and closest friends, but they would also have to see the faces of the people who had poisoned their relationship the first time around, day in and day out. She worried that the trust and loyalty which had developed over the last couple of months would not be able to withstand the brutality of Weatherfield a second time. But, regardless, tomorrow was the big day. If she didn't leave now, she feared she never would. Her apprehensive thoughts were shocked back to the present day as her phone buzzed on her bedside table, and she leant over eagerly to read Peter's reply:

' _Tomorrow couldn't come quick enough. It's killing me, being here without you. I miss you xxx_ '.

She smiled, and squeezed her eyes shut. Tomorrow was going to be the start of the rest of their lives.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for your lovely reviews - it really means a lot to me to read them :). For the Narla fans - I am debating writing a Narla fanfic although I have never done one before. At the moment it's between Narla or going back to my roots and writing an AU Liarla fic, or maybe both, eventually! :)**

 **Cln9 - it's as if you read my mind ;).**

 **Thanks again for your comments, please keep them coming as I really do want to take your views into account. Hope you like it.**

 **Chloe xoxo**

* * *

The drive to Devon had been painstaking. Sure, it was nowhere near the same distance as it would have been to go back home to Weatherfield, but what made the almost-three hour drive even more nerve-wracking was the expectation of the unwanted welcome that he was bound to receive. As Peter listened to the harrowing words of Amy Winehouse's 'You Know I'm No Good', he snorted, shaking his head and turning the radio off in irritation. The last thing he needed was a reminder of how spectacularly he had managed to screw up his life. He didn't know why he'd thought that it'd be a good idea to see her. He'd found out Carla's new address a few weeks prior, but so far he hadn't managed to pluck up the courage to use it. Until this morning. He'd woken up, showered, dressed, and caught a glimpse of a beautiful photo of her that was propped up on his coffee table reflected in the mirror. It had sent a stabbing pain of regret through his chest, and suddenly, he'd felt the urge to see her in the flesh. And there he was. In his car, driving almost 150 miles to see her. Despite the fact that he was probably the last person that she would want to see. Penetrating his thoughts, his satnav beeped cheerily, alerting him that he had 'reached his destination'. Pulling up beside the pavement, he hesitated and drew in a deep breath, his heart racing with nerves.

"Pull yourself together," he scolded himself, twisting his car key and slipping it into his jacket pocket. He was acting like a teenager, but that was how Carla made him feel. Like he was young, and like his feelings for her were the only thing that mattered. His lecture was of no help, however, as he anxiously glanced along the row of houses, searching for Number 17. There it was, a rather large terraced house painted stark white, which was typical for the houses in this area, surrounded by others which were painted pastel shades of pink, blue and yellow. It was early August, and Peter could feel the bright coastal sun blazing down on the back of his leather jacket as he sauntered up the front garden path, which was seamless in itself. The paving slabs were lined with neat rows of flowerbeds decorating either side, and beside them freshly-trimmed grass. He smiled to himself. Trust Carla to take such care in her garden, the first she'd had in a long time. As he reached the front door, he paused for a brief second to gather his emotions before knocking, but before he could lift his hand to do so, the door flung open, and his breath caught in his throat. Carla froze. Dressed in a grey pencil skirt and a v-neck sleeveless blouse, a thin jacket flung over her shoulder due to her rushed state, she was evidently late for work, but had been sure that she'd be able to make the time up if she put her foot down. Until she saw her ex-husband, stood on her doorstep with his hands sheepishly tucked in the pockets of his jeans and a stupid grin plastered across his face.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she breathed, overcome by the sudden increase in her heart rate. She put it down to her panic that she would be late. That was all it could be. Peter merely shrugged his shoulders, a coy smile still playing on his lips.

"I was in the area, thought I'd pop by and say hello." Amazed, Carla shook her head.

"You have got to be joking…" she scoffed, before stepping past him and pulling her front door closed behind her, acting as though his presence did not affect her whatsoever. "Nice to see you haven't changed a bit."

"Where are you going?" Peter asked, moving to follow her as she started to head up the street towards where her expensive new motor was parked.

"Er, to work? The world doesn't stop and fall to its knees just because you want it to, Peter," came Carla's bitter response. Without another word, she climbed into the driver's seat of her car and switched on the ignition. As Peter stopped short beside her door, she reluctantly rolled down her window, unable to resist one last catty remark to her ex. Though they had parted on amicable terms eventually, she had still never forgiven him for destroying her, and was not about to let him rock the steady little life that she had built for herself in Devon. "You'll have cleared off and gone scurrying back to Portsmouth by the time I get back if you know what's good for you. You're well practiced at that now." Before he could respond, she lifted her foot off of the clutch and carefully weaved her car out of its tight spot, closing her window once again. Once out of sight, she turned a corner and parked up at the end of the next street, a few tears escaping and coursing down her cheeks. Her heart was still pounding, and she felt like pinching herself because it felt as though she were stuck in a nightmare.

"Bastard," she hissed to herself, furiously wiping away her frustrated tears. It had taken her a long time to rebuild herself after what had happened with Nick. And Johnny, and Peter, and… Frank Foster. She'd spent the past ten years trapped in a tumultuous life, and she'd finally started to get used to the peaceful sanctity of Devon, the calming countryside walks and weekends spent lounging around on the beach in a bikini – when weather permitted. Why did Peter Barlow feel the need to swan back into her life and knock her down again? Carla's grip tensed around the steering wheel as her chest grew tight with panic, her lungs feeling like they were going to explode. She wasn't prone to panic attacks, but since the Frank incident, they had become more commonplace. And seeing Peter stood there in her own peaceful hometown brought all of her horrendous memories flooding back to her, including those that she had pushed to the very back of her mind. Her attack, Peter's affair, the loss of her unborn baby; the things that Carla Connor had suffered were enough to trigger even the hardest of people. As she struggled to regain control of her breathing, Carla squeezed her eyes shut, tears stinging her eyes and threatening to spill down her cheeks and smudge her mascara. She'd been so content since moving to Devon. Now Peter was here and reminding her of all of the horrors that she'd desperately tried to forget.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you all ever so much for your lovely reviews. I did consider making Carla all soppy and lovey-dovey at one point, but then I decided that we see too much of that nowadays. The thing that I always loved most about Carla was the fact that she wouldn't take crap from anyone, and Peter should be no different :). So don't expect her to go running back into his open arms in a hurry!**

 **Once again, I can't thank you enough for your feedback. I hope you'll see that I am taking your comments on board, and I really appreciate it.**

 **Hope you like this chapter, sorry it's a short one!**

 **Chloe xoxo**

Carla had pushed all thoughts of Peter to the back of her mind throughout her day at work. She'd had to, her role was too important, and she couldn't let idiot men like her 'beloved' ex-husband interfere with her job. Being a Managing Director was different from running her own business; there wasn't the buzz that used to rush through her veins when she closed a deal or succeeded in sweet-talking a new client, but at the same time, she was able to work nine to five, Monday to Friday, and outside work hours, the business needn't penetrate her thoughts like Underworld had. She had lived, slept and breathed Underworld. The company that she worked for now was small, yet upcoming and growing ever bigger. Ironically, they manufactured children's clothes, namely denim, taking Carla back to the days where she'd first turned her hand to business in making children's designer dungarees. She had a stellar workforce behind her, and a fantastic team of junior managers. Although she wasn't Queen Bee anymore, she thoroughly enjoyed her job, and wouldn't change it for the world. By that evening, she was extremely pleased with her ability to forget about her problems, a skill she'd acquired during her harrowing years in Weatherfield and, as it was a Friday night, she'd dragged a few of her colleagues down to the local pub for a few glasses of wine after work. It was still weird to have 'colleagues', but it was nice to have a ready-made set of friends to replace the likes of Michelle, Maria and (sometimes) Leanne that she'd left behind. She chuckled as one of the senior managers cracked a joke at their boss's expense, brushing past the silver Ford Fiesta parked over the curb and pushing open the door of the pub, with her three friends traipsing in behind her. Carla headed straight for the bar, grinning broadly at the familiar barmaid stood poised behind it.

"Hiya, Sam, can we get a bottle of the house red and four glasses over here, ta?" she asked, to a cheer from the rest of her group, who had settled themselves in the booth nearest the door.

"Celebrating?" the young barmaid asked, eyeing the other women up somewhat enviously. Carla smiled knowingly.

"Yeah, as it happens." She nodded, allowing her mind to flutter to the image of Peter, downtrodden, having arrived home in Portsmouth empty-handed and rejected, and breathed in deeply. Screw him. "The old boy not in tonight?"

"Aye. Him and the wife are out back, think she's joining me later on. They've got someone staying in the guesthouse now so Chris reckons he's earned the night off," Sam replied, with a sarcastic but joking roll of her eyes. Carla sniggered. Having lived in Devon for a few months now and being a regular visitor to the pub only a couple of streets away, she was on very good terms with the pub's landlord, Chris, and his pretty wife, Jenny. They were only few years older than herself and had been married since they were barely out of school, yet their marriage was just as strong as it had been when they were teenagers. As well as owning a pub, they ran a B&B using the spare bedroom upstairs, and though it had been filled most of the early summer, business had quietened down the last couple of weeks and it had been empty.

"Typical bloke, 'ey?"

"Nah. He's a good'un, that one. Shame there ain't more blokes like him in the world."

"You can say that again." She gathered the four glasses in a group and carried them and the bottle over to the booth before sliding in beside her co-workers, a happy grin spreading across her face as the other women showered her in thanks.

The quartet remained in place for a few hours, laughing and nattering away about their jobs, their families and their boss. Carla had never had this kind of social life before. Sure, she'd had Michelle, but while living in Weatherfield, their conversation topics were mainly their dramatic lives, courtesy of the men that they loved. It felt nice to just be able to talk about normal, menial topics with other women for once. Having finished their couple of bottles of wine a while ago, Carla shimmied up to the bar to buy another round, rummaging in her bag for her purse as she did so. Until, that was, an all-too-familiar voice shattered her cheery demeanour.

"Sorry Jenny, Chris has popped out and a load of the channels on the upstairs telly are password-protected and I-" She looked up, and he finished his sentence abruptly as his eyes met hers and for a second, Peter could have sworn that his heart stopped beating.

"You have got to be kidding me…" Carla murmured, unable to tear her eyes away, fixated on her ex-husband in shock. Jenny, the pub's landlady, raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"You two know each other?" she asked, innocently. Carla scoffed.

"You could say that. Why the hell are you not back in Portsmouth, where you belong?" she hissed, bitterly, a couple of her words slurring in her evidently tipsy state. Peter stumbled over his words for a few seconds before he was able to form a proper response.

"I didn't know you'd be here…"

"You didn't think I'd ever visit my local pub?! You really expect me to believe that? Tell me, Jenny, do I have 'mug' scrawled across my forehead in capital letters or something?!" Carla snapped, pointing at her forehead and turning to the bewildered barmaid.

"Do you two want to take this out back? Only I think you've got yourselves some nosy parkers over there…" Jenny mumbled, nodding over to Carla's group of companions. Upon glancing over her shoulder, Carla suddenly remembered that she wasn't alone, and a slight crimson blush crept up in her cheeks at the idea of embarrassing herself in front of her colleagues. Begrudgingly, she slipped behind the bar and brushed past Peter in the direction of the door to the home that was attached to the small neighbourhood pub.

"I'll have another glass of Merlot please, Sam. Make it a large one, will you?" she called over her shoulder. Peter reluctantly followed her, flashing Jenny an apologetic smile. He had genuinely had no idea that Carla was a regular visitor to the pub. From what he'd heard, the whole situation with Nick and Robert had convinced her to cut down on her alcohol intake. Carla sighed, before heading into the pub's living room and waiting apprehensively for her ex-husband to join her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much for your reviews! This update is very rushed, so I might edit it later on. It's also very speech-based. I'm trying to write longer chapters, I'm aiming for about 1,500 words per chapter. Please drop me a review to let me know what you think - I'm debating increasing them to about 2,000 words in the future, but I'd love to know your views!**

 **I'm currently in the depths of three pieces of coursework and an exam for my second year of uni, so please bear with me. I'd love to do more regular updates, particularly as I have a new idea for a Peter and Carla fanfic, which I'll probably write after I've finished my Liarla one (which is called 'When We Were Young' and hasn't seemed to have generated much feedback, so please check it out! I'm so excited to be writing it!). But for now, until mid-May, I'm really struggling to find the time to write. Not long to go!**

 **Once again, thank you so much for your lovely comments. I'm glad you're all liking feisty Carla. She's the model of Carla that I fell in love with, but I will eventually bring in a touch of her soft side, too.**

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **Chloe xoxo**

"What the hell are you playing at?" Carla seethed, unable to stop her feet pacing across the living room at the back of the pub. Peter, meanwhile, was perched on the sofa, watching her movements. She cradled a large glass of red wine in her hands, the pair not having spoken until the apprehensive barmaid had brought Carla her drink and sheepishly scurried out of the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind her.

"Can you just stand still for five minutes? You're making me nervous…"

"Good! About time something did," Carla snapped, though she came to rest in the centre of the room and turned to him, however, her gaze remained fixed on the floor. She refused to meet his eyes. "Why are you still here?"

"Would you believe me if I told you that I'd got all the way here and realised I can't afford the petrol home? I don't get paid until next week and I lent some money to a mate of mine who needed it," Peter explained carefully, his cheeks flushing at the revelation of how little he had to his name.

"I don't think I'll ever believe another word that comes out of your mouth," Carla sneered. She slowly raised her head, her heart jolting as she met his deep, brown eyes for the first time. "Why did you come, if you couldn't afford it?" Peter puffed out a sigh through his lips and hesitantly shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know, Carla. I… I needed to see you." He flinched as Carla laughed loudly, hiding her red lips behind her hand. Her eyes flashed angrily.

"You 'needed' to see me? I should have guessed. Everything in this world is about what Peter Barlow wants and needs."

"Carla-"

"I mean, that's what split us up in the first place, wasn't it? You 'needed' to jump into bed with Tina McIntyre while your pregnant wife naively made plans for the future thinking nothing was wrong!" Carla practically spat out the name of her former love rival, quickly spinning on her heel and turning her back to him as tears pricked at her eyes. She breathed in slowly, and out again. She was not going to let him see that he'd brought her raw emotions to the surface.

"This isn't about me and what I need."

"You said it, darling."

"Roy told me that Nick had given you a hard time and that you were in a pretty bad place when you left," Peter began to explain, slowly, causing Carla to whip back around again, her expression showing disgust, her arms folded across her chest.

"So, what, you thought that you rocking up would really help me out just when I'd settled into a new life away from all the drama of Weatherfield?" she cried, indignantly, "What were you even doing talking to Roy, anyway?"

"He called me. You'd been quite distant in your replies to his messages and he was worried about you. And for some reason, Carla, he seemed to think that I'd be able to get through to you," Peter responded, agitated, rising to his feet and moving to step closer to her. He attempted to place his hands on her shoulders, but she shied away from him.

"I'm fine," Carla hissed, rubbing furiously at her cheek as a tear dropped from her eye and gave the game away, as if her red eyes had not betrayed her enough. "I wish everyone would just leave me alone to move on. I've gone through a lot worse than being dumped on my wedding day. Let's just say that me and my weddings don't really have a great history." Sighing at her dig, Peter relaxed, his arms dropping to his sides as he gave her a small, sad smile.

"I honestly didn't come here to hurt you, Carla…" The room fell into a strained silence as both parties thought about their present situation. Carla blinked her tears away, still in disbelief that the man who had been the love of her life for so long was stood in front of her, intruding on her plain little life in the south. She cleared her throat, glancing down at her feet.

"How long are you staying?" she asked, not sure that she wanted to hear his response.

"A week. I'll be out of your hair as soon as I get paid," Peter assured her, though Carla scoffed at his comment.

"You won't be _in_ my hair. I'll just stay the hell away from here until you've cleared off," she snapped, anger flaring up inside her once again at his sheer cheek. How dare he just decide to ruin her life for an entire week without consulting her first. "You living in a pub is a stupid idea, anyway. Or brilliant, depending on what kind of mood you're in."

"I haven't had a drink since the day I went to Portsmouth."

"Oh, yeah, and I'm the Virgin Mary." Sick of looking at him, Carla pushed past Peter and threw open the door, before storming back through to the pub without a second glance behind her, though Peter was hot on her tail.

"We're not finished yet, where are you going?" he asked, anxiously glancing over to the table of Carla's work colleagues, who had been joined by a flock of males from the office, all of whom were dressed smartly in suits and ties and were staring at the two of them.

"Oh, we are very much finished. We 'finished' the day you told me you copped off with someone else on our wedding night!" One of the men who was stood leaning against Carla's friends' booth stood up straight and glided to Carla's side, concern etched across his face. He was younger than her, if only by a few years, as well as being extremely attractive. He was tall, dark-haired with pale green eyes which eyed Peter suspiciously.

"Is he causing you a problem?" He asked Carla, nodding in Peter's direction. Peter laughed bitterly.

"Back off, mate, she's my wife."

"Ex-wife," Carla reminded him, shooting him a venomous glare before glancing up at her companion. "I think I'm gonna make a move, Trent. Give my apologies to the others, will you?" She forced a smile, before slipping out of the front door of the pub. Peter made to follow her, but the young man named 'Trent' stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

"You might want to re-think that, _mate_ ," he growled, warningly. Peter scoffed and merely shoved him aside, before ducking out of the door and following his ex-wife, his long, sober steps quickly catching up to her shaky, tipsy ones.

"Who was he?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Carla snorted, before losing her balance on an uneven paving slab and staggering into the side of her car. She fumbled in her handbag for a moment, before drawing her set of keys out. Moving quickly, Peter placed a hand over the top of hers and her keys, though she elbowed him sharply in the ribs in response. "Leave me alone."

"You're not seriously going to drive in this state?" Peter asked, incredulously. After everything she'd been through with her last drink-driving saga, Carla had been much more careful. Until he'd shown up and screwed with her life, apparently.

"What's it to you?" she sneered, though she sighed and instead leant against her car door, raising her head to meet his eyes. "I don't want to walk home when I can't even walk in a straight line."

"Then I'll drive you home," Peter offered, nodding towards his car, which was parked next to hers. Carla laughed.

"Now who's being ridiculous?"

"It's not ridiculous. I have a car, you need a lift, seems pretty logical to me."

"I'll call a cab."

"No, I'll give you a lift." Carla groaned in frustration, squeezing her eyes shut as she paused for a few seconds, drawing in a deep breath and considering her options.

"You haven't changed. You're still as difficult," she observed, her eyelids flickering open. He smirked, and she could have sworn that she felt her heart flutter for a brief second.

"And you're still as gorgeous." Peter's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper, and its' sultry rasp triggered goosebumps to raise all across Carla's arms.

"Right, okay, I'm definitely calling a cab…"

"No, don't be daft, I was only messing. Come on." Peter slung an arm around her slim waist in an attempt to guide her towards his vehicle, though she defiantly brushed him off.

"I can walk," she snapped, teetering over to the passenger side of his car. "And I'm only agreeing to this because I don't want to ruin my new Jimmy Choos."

"Of course you are, love," Peter pretended to agree, pulling her door open for her as he passed on his way to the driver's side of his car. She shot him another glare, as if he hadn't already received plenty.

"Don't call me that," she replied, bluntly, slipping into the car and slamming the door shut behind her. Peter chuckled to himself, before getting into his own seat and buckling up for what he was sure would be an interesting car journey, even though her house was only a couple of streets away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello :) Thank you very much for the review, I love hearing that you're enjoying seeing Carla's feisty side!**

 **This chapter wasn't what I intended to happen. But with the recent news about Ali's potential return, I just couldn't help myself. Although don't think that Carla's walls are suddenly going to come crashing down - let her sober up and speak to her in the morning. ;)**

 **As I have said on all three of my fics, I am concerned that nobody is reading just because I'm only receiving one or two reviews per chapter. If you are reading, please let me know just by dropping me a quick hello as a review, it honestly would mean a lot to me! Whatever your opinion, this story is hugely shaped by what you guys want to see - though as you'll see from this chapter, even I don't seem to be able to control these characters, haha! I hope you don't mind what I've done here.**

 **Hope you enjoy this one! And once again, thank you so much for reading. :)**

 **Chloe xoxo**

Pulling up outside her house, Carla sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it, staring out of the windscreen. The pair had remained in silence throughout the entirety of their journey, neither sure of the words that the other would want or care to hear. Nervously, Carla toyed with the ring on her middle finger, whilst Peter aimlessly tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Do you wanna-?"

"What are you-?"

They both laughed in spite of their circumstances as they tried to talk over each other. Carla's wide, genuine grin made Peter's heart flutter, his eyes fixed on her plump lips. She pressed them together, trying to conceal her smile.

"You first."

"I was just gonna ask if you were up to anything else this evening?" Peter asked, somewhat shyly. Carla, meanwhile, smirked.

"Which leads onto my question of 'do you wanna come in for a coffee?'…" Carla didn't know why her hatred for the man in front of her had suddenly drained away. She assumed it was a drawback of the alcohol coursing through her veins, though there was a hint of her that simply dreaded the thought of yet another Friday evening spent alone in front of the television. Especially while knowing that Peter Barlow was only mere minutes away. Peter's mouth dropped open in surprise, and Carla didn't wait for his answer before hopping out of the car and stumbling up her front path and to the door, struggling to ram her key into the lock of her front door. Laughing, Peter moved to stand behind her once he too was out of the car and carefully guided her hand to the lock with a steady one of his own, unaware that his closeness made goosebumps form all over Carla's tanned skin. She mumbled her thanks, before stepping inside and kicking off her shoes. Peter, meanwhile, glanced around the hallway, surprised at how cosy and homely it appeared. He'd never imagined Carla to be the type to live in a quaint little house by the beach.

"Nice house," he commented, and Carla arched an eyebrow.

"You can say it, you know."

"Say what?"

"How it's not really 'me'. I thought it too, when I first moved here," she explained, leading him through to the rather large kitchen situated at the back of the house, which was similarly adorned with simple yet pretty and relaxing furnishings. "But it's home now. It's lovely when it's hot." Flicking the kettle on, she moved onto her tiptoes and reached into one of the higher cupboards for two mugs. Placing them on the kitchen counter, she accidentally knocked one onto its side and let out a laugh. "You can make the coffees." Instead, she used her hands to push herself up onto the other counter and smoothed her dress down over her thighs. Peter, meanwhile, nodded in agreement, unable to prevent his eyes from following her hand movements and lingering on the raised hem of her dress. Fortunately, she didn't appear to notice.

"I thought the same about Portsmouth when I moved there. It's not quite had the same effect on me that this place has on you, though."

"I thought you were happy there?" Carla asked in surprise. Peter shrugged.

"I was. It's not really a long-term thing, though."

"Is anything, with you?" Peter flinched at her cutting retort, though as he glanced up from the coffees that he was pouring, he was amazed to see that she was smirking playfully.

"Part of me is tempted to go back to Weatherfield. But I know there'll be a huge chunk of my old life there missing that wasn't missing when I left." Carla nodded slowly in response, before raising the fresh, boiling mug of coffee.

"To a metamorphosis." After her toast, she brought the mug to her lips and sipped the bitter liquid, grimacing. "It's hot."

"It's coffee, love. It's meant to be." Peter chuckled. A silence fell upon them as they both waited for their drinks to cool and contemplated what they would say next. Carla anxiously swung her legs back and forth, their present situation bringing all-too-familiar memories of their earlier friendship and his saving of her to the surface.

"I don't drink much anymore," she insisted. She didn't know why she felt the urge to defend her actions, but she did. "I felt like I needed it today."

"I'm not judging."

"I know, but... I'm fine. The 'Nick thing'... It was probably for the best that I screwed it up. It was always going to happen."

"Hey, don't talk like that..." Peter replied, his heart twisting at the sad expression on her pretty face; it was killing him to know that that look was due to another man. Carla quickly pushed her hair back over her shoulder and forced a smile.

"I don't want your pity. Really, I'm fine. Happy."

"Good..." Peter trailed off as he noticed her eyes linger longingly on an unopened bottle of red wine in the corner of the kitchen, the liquid glistening teasingly in the light. "Feel free."

"I'm not hitting the bottle in front of you." Shooting her a knowing smile, Peter moved towards the bottle, hunted through the cupboards until he found a wine glass and poured her a large measure. He drew closer to her as he handed her the glass, revelling in the way that her fingertips grazed his.

"Feel free..." he repeated, his voice husky and barely above a whisper. Carla raised her eyes to meet his, swallowing hard at the sudden intensity of the air around them.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" she teased, before flashing him a small smile. "I just don't feel ready to sober up yet." Finished with her excuses, Carla lifted the glass to her lips, grateful for the familiar sweetness that she swirled around her mouth. She was pleasantly surprised. Peter seemed entirely in control of his habit, so much so that even the bitter stench of the wine didn't seem to be affecting him. He didn't move away from her, instead pulling himself up onto the counter to sit beside her, their arms brushing against each other and sending bolts of electricity through both of their veins. As the pair quickly fell back into their conversation about their new lives once again, the air around them seemed to ease, and everything about the situation that they found themselves in felt natural.

oooooooooooo

Carla wasn't aware of how much time had passed. She'd placed her glass down after finishing a substantial amount of the bottle, her brain now pleasantly fuzzy and blurred from the alcohol. Her tolerance wasn't what it used to be. Neither had moved from their spots on the kitchen counter. Peter grinned happily as Carla's laugh filled the room like a beautiful symphony to his ears. He didn't need alcohol to feel like he was having one of the best evenings of his life. They'd confided in each other about their fears for the future, their plans and their failed relationships. They would be like two old friends, if it weren't for the sizzling chemistry that danced in the air around them. Shyly, Carla looked away, down at her hands in her lap.

"I didn't look that good that night," she commented, referring to the night upon which Peter and Leanne's bar had opened and she'd been shamefully arrested for drink driving. And Peter had come to her rescue, ever her knight in shining armour. Without thinking, Peter hooked his finger underneath her chin and lifted her head to look at him.

"You always look good," he replied, his voice low and coarse. Her breathing stalled, and he could feel her trembling beneath his gentle touch. "No. You always look beautiful." She smiled.

"Charmer. You're not so bad yourself."

"Even though I'm an unshaven rogue with no morals and a drink problem?" Carla shrugged.

"You don't have a drink problem anymore, and we can work on your morals." She consciously drew her face a little closer to his, her skin tingling as she became able to feel his breath on her skin. "And I happen to like unshaven rogues..." She assessed her next move for a brief few seconds before her intoxicated brain took over. She tilted her head towards him and slowly brushed her lips against his, which he caught willingly. Their mouths only touched briefly before they moved apart, a decision which they quickly regretted. Both drew in closer once again, their lips crashing together, this time more feverishly and with much more passion. Peter entangled his fingers in her long, dark hair, and Carla's hands tugged his shirt towards her, the drink blurring her mind and her senses. She knew that she wanted him; what she couldn't fathom was the inevitable consequences of her actions. Fortunately for her, Peter, despite his faults, was a good man who knew better than to take advantage of a vulnerable woman who was highly intoxicated. Gently, and regrettably, he placed his hands on his shoulders and slowly pulled away from her.

"Carla... No..." he murmured softly, causing an embarrassed groan to pass her lips. She looked down, her cheeks flushing scarlet. "I'm not going to do that to you."

"I'm going to bed..." Carla mumbled in response, unable to look at him as she hopped off of the kitchen counter and staggered over to the fridge, retrieving a well-needed bottle of water. As she moved to leave the kitchen, Peter caught her wrist in the palm of his own hand.

"Hey..." She reluctantly turned back around to face him, though couldn't meet his eyes. "I'm not saying I don't want to. God, I want nothing more. But you're bladdered, and I'm not the type of bloke who'd take advantage of someone in your state," he explained. She shot him a small, sheepish smile.

"You choose now to be a gentleman?"

"Enjoy it while it lasts. You'll have forgotten all about it in the morning." Carla tilted the bottle of water in his direction.

"I'll hold you to that." She turned away and moved over to the staircase, though hesitated and glanced back over her shoulder at the former love of her life. "You can crash here on the sofa, if you want. It must be late." Watching her walk away and disappear upstairs, Peter couldn't deny the way that her simple offer made his heart flutter rapidly inside his chest. He tried not to read into it. She was drunk, and she wasn't in control of her decisions. But the evening, and the offer, and all that had happened in between gave him hope.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you very much for the review, it means a lot to me :).**

 **Like I said - Carla and Peter do their own thing, I have no control over these guys, haha! This fic doesn't have a plan.**

 **Hope you like it - please let me know!**

 **Chloe xoxo**

ooooooooooooooo

A dagger of light streamed in through a small slit in Carla's bedroom curtains. The brightness hit her face, stirring her from her deep but drunken sleep. She groaned. Thick mascara glued her eyelashes together, and she attempted to force her eyes open, though found that doing so made the room spin. Blindly, she fumbled around on her bedside table. Surely Drunk Carla had spared a thought for her hungover self and had prepared herself an emergency glass of water the night before? Her fingers suddenly found the lukewarm bottle and, relieved, she clumsily unscrewed it and brought it to her lips, taking a few urgent gulps. She couldn't think about last night. Doing so gave her a headache.

Had she…? She scoffed and shook her head, refusing to believe it. There was no way she'd gotten drunk in front of Peter. Even an inebriated Carla wouldn't have been that stupid… Would she?

Reluctantly, Carla pulled herself upright, taking a few seconds to steady her vision before reaching for a makeup wipe and furiously rubbing her heavy, sleep-filled eyes. She became deep in thought as she washed away the remnants of the night before, glancing down dazedly at the black and brown glittery streaks on the wipe. She remembered being in the pub with her colleagues, and arguing with Peter, and somehow, stupidly, inviting him in for a coffee. From there, everything was a bit of a blur. Bits and pieces floated around in her memory, but nothing concrete, or that she was able to coherently place together.

"Why am I such a mess?" she scolded herself, surprised at how hoarse and croaky her voice was. How much had she had to drink last night?

Fresh-faced, she slid her bare legs out of the bed and slowly rose to her feet, a dull ache pumping through every limb. She grabbed a spearmint chewing gum from her bedside drawer – the idea of standing for five minutes to actually brush her teeth seemed painful – and threw her dressing gown on over her nightshirt, padding across her bedroom floor, her empty water bottle clutched in her hands.

She made her way across her landing before tentatively attempting the stairs, gripping onto the bannister as every downward movement jolted her stability. As she rounded the corner and moved to pass the living room doorway, she suddenly froze on the spot, her heart leaping into her mouth. Peter Barlow – as in, her cheating ex-husband Peter Barlow – was sprawled across her living room sofa, clad only in his boxers and vest top. His token battered leather jacket fortunately shielded his modesty. The television buzzed faintly in the background – he presumably hadn't intended to fall asleep in such a position last night. Certainly, he can't have intended to fall asleep at her house at all.

And then, everything suddenly came flooding back to Carla, and, mortified, she covered her face with her hands. _Shit_.

Not only had she taken it upon herself to unashamedly snog the face off of her ex-husband, he'd rejected her in an oh-so-familiar manner, and then she had invited him to camp out _on her sofa for the night_.

God, she needed to sort her life out. And stay away from alcohol for the rest of it.

Suddenly feeling a burning desire for caffeine, she staggered through to the kitchen and flicked the kettle on, before quickly refilling her bottle and downing half of it in a few gulps, steading herself against the kitchen counter. She closed her eyes. What the hell was she going to do now, with a sleeping scumbag on her sofa?

Part of her question was answered for her, as the kettle's whistle stirred Peter from his sleep. He grumbled under his breath before coming to his senses, and sitting up in surprise as he realised that Carla was awake and in the room. Hastily, he adjusted his position so that his jacket completely covered his lap, and patted around on the floor for his t-shirt.

"I didn't think you'd be up this early…" he mumbled, his cheeks flaming red as he successfully found what he was looking for and pulled his top on over his head, shooting Carla an embarrassed, apologetic smile. From over in the kitchen, her eyelids fluttered open, though as she met his gaze, she suddenly wished that she'd kept them shut as she was hit with a wave of humiliation.

"Evidently," she commented in response, turning her back on him and pouring herself a cup of coffee in a stained one which she assumed had been used the previous night.

"What do you-…?" Peter's question was cut off as Carla complained and raised a hand, lifting the mug to her lips and taking a sip, not caring that its temperature seared her tongue.

"Have you really forgotten not to talk to me until I've had my morning caffeine fix?" she half-joked, still not facing him. An uncomfortable atmosphere settled between the pair as Carla sipped her coffee in silence, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. Peter, meanwhile, took the opportunity to slip on his jeans and make his way through to the kitchen, hoping that his dressed state would break the uneasy ambience. He was wrong. Eventually, Carla became wise to the way that he was watching her intently, and warily lifted her gaze to meet his. "What?"

"Nothing…" Peter mumbled, feeling just as humiliated as he had been five minutes prior. "I was just wondering how much you remember of last night." Carla hesitated, a lump forming in her throat. Something told her that she would be handing herself to him on a silver platter if she were to show any sign of recalling how easy she had been in her drunken stupor. She shrugged.

"Not a lot. I remember you being an arse and deciding to crash in my local pub. Then being an arse and trying to follow me home. _Then_ being an arse and pouring more and more wine down my throat," came her unpleasant retort, her eyes flashing fiercely, "Notice a running theme here?" Peter was notably taken aback, his own eyes wide with shock. After the heart-to-heart that they had shared – and the rest – he couldn't believe that sobriety had completely changed how she felt. He tried again.

"So you don't remember-…?"

"No. I don't," Carla snapped before he could finish, setting her mug down on the draining board and fully turning to face him, folding her arms across her chest. In doing so, she was also able to pull the string of her dressing gown tighter around her waist, using it as a kind of protective barrier from him. "Last night I was weak, and I gave into temptation. Believe me, it won't be happening again anytime soon." She was deliberately being elusive as to the true meaning of her self-deprecation.

"Carla-…"

"I don't want to hear it, Peter, okay? You've got ten seconds to _please_ get out of my house." Stunned, Peter didn't move, but Carla narrowed her eyes into venomous slits.

" _One_." Peter said nothing, quickly scurrying back into the living room and grabbing his keys, mobile and packet of cigarettes from the arm of the sofa, stuffing them into the back pockets of his jeans.

" _Two_." He ambled over to the front door and slung his jacket over his shoulders. Reaching for the door handle, he paused, and glanced back at his former wife.

"I'll text you later."

" _Ten_." Carla's voice broke as tears pricked her eyes. Sensing her distress, Peter slipped out of the front door without another word and firmly closed it behind him. A sob escaped Carla's lips as tears began to stream down her cheeks, though she couldn't pinpoint what she was crying for. Embarrassment? Rejection? Or merely the knowledge that the love of her life had just walked out of the door and that she didn't know when she would see him again?

Fuming with herself, she picked up the mug which rested on the draining board and turned it over in her fingers, studying the delicate wording across the front. It had been a present to her, from him, not long after their wedding day. The day upon which he had first cheated on her, when he had destroyed the tower of strength that she had spent years trying to be, and that she had been forced to rebuild time and time again. The wording stung, like a bitter taste in the back of her throat. ' _Wife_ '.

Carla launched it at the opposite wall, causing it to shatter into multiple shards of china. Instead of rushing to pick it up, she simply stared at the mess, helplessly, almost laughing at the imagery. Her life was in tatters, too.

Sighing, she ignored the pile of broken segments and took herself back upstairs, collapsing onto her bed and curling up into a ball, shielding herself from the outside world, thanking God that it was a weekend and that she wouldn't have to face anybody today. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the tears building up in them to remain in place, longing the crying and the sadness that accompanied the act of weakness to stop. She had told herself long ago that she wouldn't shed another tear over that pathetic waste of space. And yet, here she was, unable to control her emotions after one stupid kiss that shouldn't have happened. One night, and all of the old feelings were suddenly coming back to her once again.

Damn Peter Barlow and his rough smoker's voice, and his coarse, calloused touch that made every inch of her skin tingle with excitement. And that filthy jacket that was way past it but that reminded her of some of the happiest times of her life. Damn everything about him. God, she hated him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Bonnie Sveen Fan - as always, I really appreciate the review, thank you! I completely agree - I love Chris and Ali's on-screen chemistry, I don't think I've seen another screen couple with a connection like theirs**

 **This is a short, not very good filler chapter for you guys - I'm back at university now, so I'm really struggling to find time to write. Sorry!**

 **Thank you so much to everyone who is reading - I hope this is okay!**

 **Chloe xoxo**

* * *

Carla spent a majority of her Saturday curled up in a ball on her sofa, nursing her hangover. Her eyes were glued to the television screen, but she flicked to a different channel every time something remotely romantic happened on whatever show she was watching. She wasn't in the mood to tolerate anybody else's happiness.

She tried not to allow herself to think too hard because every time she did, memories of the night before flooded her mind and made her cringe with embarrassment. The electrifying brush of their fingertips, the warmth of his body beside her, that fatal touch of his lips that made her breath catch in her throat.

She could practically feel the light graze of his stubble against her fingertips as she stroked his cheek, shivering at the thought. She mentally scolded herself as she drifted back to reality, but she couldn't ignore the telltale goosebumps that had formed across her arms. She loathed that Peter Barlow still made her feel like a helpless teenager fawning over her first love. After everything he'd done to her, the heartache he'd caused her, he shouldn't make her feel anything at all.

Carla toyed with the idea of calling Michelle, who was her best friend and probably the only person who might be able to knock some sense into her with some stern home truths. But the thought of confiding in Michelle, telling her ' _Oh, by the way, Peter's here. No reason, he just decided to show up out of the blue. And then I let him come to my house when I was blindingly drunk and proceeded to snog his face off_ '.

Yeah. That wouldn't go down too well.

Besides, there was nothing that Michelle could tell her that she didn't already know herself. Peter had a bad track record for fidelity, and a recurring drink problem, and had wrecked her life and left her an insecure wreck. So why did he still make her stomach flip every time her eyes met his?

She'd had enough. Carla pulled herself to her feet, closing her eyes briefly in an attempt to stop the room spinning around her. Then, she shuffled upstairs and, once in the security of her bedroom, threw open her wardrobe and scrutinized the summer-y contents. She was going to put a stop to the battle inside her head. And, to do so, she intended to look gorgeous.

* * *

An hour later, Carla stepped out of her car and onto the paved path outside The Hunter's Arms public house, the evenness of the floor a stark contrast from the cobbles that her Louboutin stilettos had formerly had to contend with. She'd eventually settled on a pair of black leather-look trousers and a yellow blouse to reflect the warm summer evening that stilled the air around her. She'd hastily made arrangements to meet with one of her work colleagues in half an hour's time; she figured she may need some kind of distraction after the conversation that she was about to have.

Forcing a confident expression onto her features, she strode through the door of the pub into the bar, surprised to find it empty other than for Jenny, the landlady, who was behind the bar and scrubbing a basket full of glasses. She glanced up and smiled at her regular customer.

"Sorry, love, we closed five minutes ago."

"I didn't realize it was that late. I'm not here for a drink though, Jen." Carla drew in a deep breath and gave Jenny a sheepish smile. "Is Peter about?" Jenny's eyes glimmered with understanding, and she took a few steps back, before turning her head towards the door that led through to the pub's living quarters.

"Peter?" she called, "You've got a visitor." She resumed her previous position and began to pack all of the glasses that were spread out across the surface of the bar back into the crate. "He's out back watching some comedy rubbish with Chris. I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you." The intuitive barmaid had noted Peter's foul mood when she'd returned to the pub that morning, wearing the same clothes as he had been the night before. Carla merely smiled coyly in response.

Although Peter knew that Carla was his unexpected visitor – after all, he was over a hundred miles from home, who else would it be? – he couldn't prevent the jolt of surprise that he experienced upon laying eyes on her, every inch of her dressed and painted to perfection.

"Carla…" he breathed, trying not to let his eyes wander down her slender figure. He didn't blink as Jenny moved in front of him, grabbed her crate and made a hasty beeline for the door to the living quarters.

"I'll leave you two to it," she sung, awkwardly, kicking the door shut behind her. An uncomfortable silence fell upon the pair, and Carla found herself unable to hold Peter's gaze any longer, instead lowering her head in embarrassment.

"I didn't expect to see you tonight," Peter admitted, "Or for the rest of the week, really."

"I shouldn't have lashed out at you earlier."

"I know what raging hangovers can be like."

"There was more to it than a hangover and you know it." Carla was surprised to find herself smirking, meeting his eyes once again as she lifted her chin in defiance. She would not allow herself to appear meek and timid in front of him. "I remember everything."

"I know." She narrowed her eyes and took two small, challenging steps towards the bar that separated them.

"I can't handle my liquor anymore. A few glasses and I'm anybody's," she shot back, refusing to play to her ex-husband's ego. For a moment, she could have sworn that she noticed jealousy flash across his face, but he quickly brushed it off and smiled at her instead.

"I suppose we all have the occasional slip-ups," Peter replied, shrugging nonchalantly. He hesitated, watching in awe as Carla licked her nude-coated lips. He gulped, and quickly interjected another retort before she could pronounce herself as the winner of whatever game they were playing. "Or slip-of-the-tongues, whatever you want to call it."

He'd got her. Memories of the night before seeped into her mind, the warmth of his tongue exploring her mouth and massaging her own, his movements so familiar that they were almost comforting. She shivered, and prayed that he didn't notice. Though, judging by the stupid grin on his smug face, she was sure that he had.

"I thought we could call a truce, anyway. I'm stuck with you for a week, might as well start being nice to each other."

"When were we ever nice to each other?" Peter teased lightheartedly, though the reality of their last months as a married couple were a more prominent memory than the witty exchanges of teasing banter of their past.

"Meet me tomorrow, my house," Carla instructed, ignoring his last thoughtless comment.

"What for?" She breathed in slowly, and forced a smile of mock-confidence.

"I'm going to show you Devon," she announced. She didn't give him a chance to respond to her, wanting to have the last word in their match, and turned swiftly on her heel. She could hear his footsteps behind her. She'd almost reached the door before she felt the light brush of his hand against her upper arm; Peter knew better than to grab her after everything she'd been through in her horrifying past. She spun back around to face him, a look of triumph plastered across her face.

"Aren't you staying for a drink?" he asked, softly, suddenly aware of how close he was to her. He could hear her steady breaths, which were gradually getting faster. Carla shook her head.

"I'm going for a drink. With a friend. From work," came her response. She sunk her teeth into the plumpness of her lower lip before slowly releasing it, ending with the corner. Peter's brown eyes immediately darkened with longing, a sign that she knew all too well.

"Be careful," he warned her, his voice barely more than a whisper, "We've seen what happens when you have a few drinks, Carla." The corners of Carla's lips twitched, and she almost caught herself smiling.

"A few drinks and I'm anybody's…" she finished for him. "Goodnight, Peter." Deftly, she pushed down on the handle of the pub door and took a backwards step outside, forcing a distance between them. Peter watched her, transfixed, as she turned she strutted in the direction of her car, finally allowing herself to grin. She hugged herself, though it wasn't the cold that had made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end – it wasn't even cold that evening. She wouldn't glance over her shoulder, not until she heard the door close.

Peter Barlow managed to have an intoxicating effect on her, even after the pain that he'd caused her and everything that he'd put her through. But the result of that evening's investigation was just as she'd hoped: it was very obvious that she had the same effect on him, too.


End file.
